


A Refrain of Disjointed Time

by sonatine



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Peggy Carter is a badass, Peggy goes from Natasha's mark to Natasha's idol to Natasha's friend, Steve and Bucky find their footing in the new century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The SSR agents encounter the Winter Soldier in the early days of his deployment. Forty years later, at a benefit in New York City, Peggy Carter and Jack Thompson are visited by this ghost from the past — although this time, they can see his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. allegro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [derevko (sunshine_queen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshine_queen/gifts).



> derevko asked, 'Will you write a fic where Jack Thompson faces off with the Winter Soldier?' to which I replied, 'Hell yes.'

**1956**

Peggy couldn’t say when they’d become separated. It might have been after the explosion in the boiler room. But she’d seen neither hide nor hair of the rest of her tact team in over half an hour—an extremely worrying time frame for a more-or-less continuous firefight.

She’d made it all the way through to the exit before she ran into the remaining members of her team. Relief flooded through her as she spotted the familiar blond head burst out of an air vent a few feet overhead and hop to the ground, the rest of the team following suit.

“God _damn_ it, Thompson!” she exploded, signaling for Jones to back their van up toward the wall. “When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it, not _take it into consideration_.”

“Something was picking us off one by one from behind,” he said tersely, shoving the last man into the van. “We lost three men and I have no idea what happened to them. Saved Andrews, but he’s cut up pretty bad.”

“Did you at least find out who it was?”

“No, sir,” he said soberly, “bastard stayed hidden in the shadows the whole time, and I’m damned how he—or she—got to them without a sound. Extracted the hostage, though,” he added, nodding to the unfamiliar face in grayish tactical gear. “Orders?”

“Stick to the plan,” Peggy said immediately. “The others know the rendezvous point, they’ll meet us there if they can. No point going off on a chase for them if we’ve no idea where they are.”

Thompson gave her a leg up into the back of the van, then pulled her face briefly down for a kiss.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

He pulled away and banged his fist on the back of the vehicle as a _go ahead_. “Yes, sir.”

Jones revved up the engine and they chugged away. With only a fleeting glint of his gun, Jack melted back into the shadows of the forest.

 

* * *

 

Jack had finished his sweep of the building when a flash of silver caught his eye. He turned and saw a man standing at the end of the hallway. Just standing there. Jack hadn’t even heard him approach.

He knew without a doubt that this was the thing that had been picking them off one by one earlier.

The man didn’t move at all. He stood there, as if frozen.

Jack lowered his gun slightly.

He’d realized that the man’s entire left arm was made of metal. He thought of Sousa and was wondering if this was a POW or somehow in trouble— when the man charged.

 

* * *

 

Jack had had almost zero hand-to-hand combat experience until he started dating Peggy. All of his fighting expertise was weapons-based, unless you counted amateur boxing. When her roommate, Angie, had complained about too many vases and lamps getting broken during their sparring sessions, they’d moved their practice to a proper gym. The manager had at first balked at letting Peggy join—until Jack had blandly palmed his SSR badge while Peggy tackled the man to the floor.

There had been no more complaints.

Years later, when Angie joined the SSR for some light “freelance acting” (read: spying) work, Peggy brought her to join the same gym. It was to the manager’s credit that he did not protest at all this time, swallowing and stepping back from Peggy as he remembered their previous argument.

When Jack had finally gotten good enough that they could have an evenly matched bout, Peggy insisted they fight other people so that they didn’t get too used to each other’s moves and habits. Unfortunately, while she’d slowly managed to adapt their SSR colleagues to a more progressive mindset, the general public of 1950s American men wouldn’t be caught dead fighting a woman.

So they’d taken up training separately. They’d grown bored of sitting around the apartment every night after work anyhow. Peggy would go to neighborhoods comprised largely of immigrants and bully masters into teaching her various types of martial arts, while Jack would visit seedier, more underground fighting locations to pick up whatever else he could. Then they would reconvene and teach each other.

He was especially thankful for her right now. She was one of the most resourceful fighters he’d ever faced—and she’d taught him to assume nothing.

 

* * *

 

This man had him on the defensive, pushing him constantly back towards the dead end of the hallway. He fought like an animal, in spite of his prosthetic limb. It was clunky and unwieldy and looked to be made of hastily-slapped together pieces of scrap—so he favored his right arm, choosing to save the metal one for blocking.

He was winning. Jack was barely holding his own. At one point he managed to rid the man of his knife, and it was now lost in the dark, so they’d turned to hand to hand combat.

They were now rolling along the side of the wall, grappling, each growing hazy from lack of oxygen. Then, during one of Jack’s moments with his back against the wall, he was suddenly blinded by an onslaught of light.

There was a small air vent on the wall across from them, directly above. The light filtering through illuminated Jack’s face, shining off his blond hair, and flooded his vision. He couldn’t see a thing.

Just as he was thinking, _Well, this is the end_ , the man’s grip around his neck suddenly went slack. Jack heard a sharp intake of breath, and then a noise that was something between a whimper and a scream of rage.

Jack didn’t know what was happening, but he didn’t hesitate. He slammed the man against the wall. The man’s head hit the concrete with a sharp _crack_ and he slid to the ground.

Jack wasted no time. He turned and ran, as fast as he could.

 

* * *

 

He barely made it to the rendezvous point in time. The plane took off moments later. He debriefed Carter, who looked both horrified and interested at the mention of such an advanced artificial limb, and then laid down to rest. Peggy moved to the cockpit to speak to headquarters via radio. The rest of their tact team sat in decompressing silence until they landed in New York.

 

* * *

 

Jack and Peggy didn’t speak of the mission again until they were home, showered, and in bed. They never talked about details concerning home life at work, nor work issues at home (much). Other couples they knew all had some kind of overlap, for it’s difficult to compartmentalize your life into neat boxes, but for them, it felt like a necessity. They often had a barrier of silence until they breached their front door.

Peggy had showered first. She was already in bed, her damp hair spread across his pillow. She liked to sleep on his side of the bed when he was away. Newly clean, he slid into bed next to her, curling against her form. She exhaled, a small sigh of contentment, and linked her fingers through his.

“Soviet technology seems to be progressing faster than our own,” she said.

He ran gentle fingers down the length of her arm.

“Seems so.” Then he added, as the scene had replayed in his head ever since they left, “It wasn’t just the arm that was powerful, though. The man himself—he was stronger than normal. He didn’t even move like a man, really. More like a weapon? I don’t know. Just—single-mindedly focused.”

He felt Peggy’s back stiffen and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I don’t mean like a super-soldier,” he said.

He could feel, more than see, her smile.

“Couldn’t be. The serum’s all gone.”

“The blood too,” he reminded her.

He liked to tease her about her extraordinarily romantic gesture—pouring the remainder of Steve Rogers’ blood into the river—though he secretly agreed with her decision. It gave her closure. It gave him closure too. Captain America was a ghost that would chase them both—would chase probably their whole generation—and ghosts must be laid to rest in order for the living to move on.


	2. moderato

**1999**

The ballroom was grand and vast, though it felt small and stuffy with the amount of importance and pretension in attendance. Natasha was already bored. No—restless. It was nearing on midnight already and the benefit was still in full swing. Her date had disappeared long ago into the fray.

(He’d snorted when she’d called him her date.

“I never mix business and pleasure.”

“You’re a goddamned liar,” she said.

His jaw lifted in that familiar defiant twitch, but his eyes were crinkled and she could tell he was pleased.)

She sipped slowly at her champagne and nodded at the story some minister of Education was telling her. He was a charming enough man in his fifties, though not important enough to warrant any concern from her, and her attention had been caught elsewhere.

“Oh,” the man said, following her gaze. “ _There_ she is. I’ve been missing her all night— Will you excuse me?”

He drifted off toward the handsome couple holding court at the far end of the ballroom.

Age suited them. Though in their seventies, they were both had a healthy glow that suggested an active lifestyle. Jack Thompson still dressed impeccably—always with suspenders—and Peggy Carter was the epitome of elegance. While her hair had gradiated into salt-and-pepper mix, Thompson’s had gone completely white. Yet Natasha, who’d only ever seen them in photos from their prime, recognized them immediately. Both were known for their strong personalities. Thompson’s face was still chiseled, if also lined, and his cocky grin still flashed. Peggy Carter could pass for an advertisement for Refinement (TM)—but Natasha could tell from the wry twist of her mouth and the overheard snippets of conversation that her dry humor could cut through you like a steel wire.

She deposited her empty glass of bubbly onto a table and slid back into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

 

Elena’s boy was heading toward her. He was the spitting image of his mother, right down to her way of walking. Peggy wrapped up her conversation with a humanitarian idealist (though rather self-important), and turned toward him.

He extended his hand. “Peggy Carter. It’s an honor.”

Over the years there had been some debate over what to call her. As her legacy at the SSR and SHIELD stretched far and wide, most people she worked with or knew personally called her simply _Peggy_. Like _Madonna_ or _Jesus_ , the mononym seemed sufficient.

To outsiders, there was a typical routine of uncertainty. Those who attempted to call her “Mrs. Thompson” were met with a level stare known to make Generals and Presidents alike shudder. Though Jack would still refer to her as “Chief” from their SSR days, few people called her “Director” due to her protégé Fury’s current appointment. Eventually people fell into a habit of always using her first and last name, as if they wanted no confusion as to whom they were referring.

At first it sounded amusing and overly formal—

_“Peggy Carter, can you talk some sense into Fury? He’s refusing to budge on this issue.”_

_“Mr. Pierce, if you have a minute, I’d like to speak with you and Peggy Carter about the new SHIELD initiative for increased defense.”_

_“I don’t know, go ask Peggy Carter, she’ll set you straight.”_

—but people grew accustomed to hearing it, and now any other way sounded strange.

“The honor is mine, Roberto,” said Peggy, shaking his hand. “The work you’ve done for the education system—your mother would have been very proud.”

“I wouldn’t be where I am today without her,” he said, seriously. “And it was you who first gave her a chance. So really, I have you to thank.”

Peggy smiled and thanked him, eyes a bit watery. She’d hired Elena immediately after founding SHIELD with Howard. This marked Peggy’s first, though certainly not her last, fight with the board of directors. Their frowns formed after only hearing the word “woman”, their brows furrowed after “recent immigrant”, and most of their eyes had glazed over by the time she got to “single mother.” But, as Peggy told them, hiring was her jurisdiction and she didn’t give a damn what the board thought about her new recruits. Elena had passed away from cervical cancer some ten years ago, but Peggy still missed her. Though not as much as Angie did.

“I was hoping to speak with you, actually, about a new non-profit I’m very excited about. How long are you in town for?”

“We’re flying back tonight, unfortunately. Jack has business in D.C. early in the morning. But I’ll be back sometime later this month—I’ll give you a call then, shall I?”

“Yes, do. Of course you’d be welcome to stay in our guest room tonight,” he added, “while your husband travels—”

“No,” Peggy and Jack said together, politely. “Thank you.”

“Peggy Carter!” someone called from across the room. “Come here, you’ve got to tell Fitzgerald—”

“Excuse me,” she said, with a smile at Elena’s son. “So good to see you again…”

She disappeared into the crowd. Jack was waylaid by an old antagonist, and soon was knee-deep in a fiery debate halfway across the room.

Elena’s son looked a little taken aback. The people around him, all old colleagues of Peggy, chuckled.

“The Carters never spend a night apart,” one explained.

 

* * *

 

 

Just recently Peggy had been talking to a woman around her age who had lived in London during the Blitz. She confessed to Peggy that every time she heard anything that remotely sounded like an air raid siren (be it a fire alarm, a shrieking phone’s ringtone, or those irritating air horns people blew at sporting events) she expected bombs to fall.

Peggy would still wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented, and think for a moment that she was in a tent somewhere in the European front. Sometimes Jack would murmur commands in his sleep.

It’s not that they _couldn’t_ sleep apart—obviously they were two independently functioning adults. But they preferred to fall asleep with the other there. Peggy fell asleep much quicker and easier with Jack’s long fingers stroking her hair. And Jack, who was a terrible sleeper and probably woke up four times an hour, liked to hear Peggy’s breathing; even in the pitch-black darkness, he knew that she was there. He could reach out and pull her close.

Just the fact that the other was _there_ , next to them—that they wanted the other there, to share the burden.

 

* * *

 

Natasha found him surrounded by a group of admiring women. She could hardly blame them. With his hair slicked back and the shape of his shoulders in that tux, no one would ever notice the slight knife outline in his pocket. Or the hardware he had strapped all across him.

She sidled up to him, whispering the sitrep into his ear. He squeezed her arm and politely extricated himself from the conversation.

“Ladies,” he said, nodding a goodbye. Their eyes followed him longingly as they moved away.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked, scanning the room’s exits. His hand was warm upon her back, covered in formal white gloves.

“Jealous?” he said idly.

His eyes were constantly moving. He was always in unceasing motion; even when sitting or standing still, his body was tensed, ready to spring into action. Natasha had never seen him at rest. She wondered if she would even recognize him as such.

“Hardly. My tally of admirers outstrips yours tonight.”

“Lies. Greatest threat?”

“The older lady. Over there.” She jerked her chin towards Agent Carter.

“Mm.” Nothing took him by surprise. When you are wiped clean so many times, when even the most basic of daily routines and patterns are tabula rasa’d—when _every_ thing that happens is new and a surprise—then eventually nothing is. “Proceed with caution.”

“Don’t worry. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

He smiled at her choice of idiom. (She calls it a smile. It’s a ghost of a happy action, a shadow of what it should be. It’s the right side of his mouth that curves slightly up, but at least it’s genuine. His fake, undercover smile is so manufactured—melting plastic in front of a furnace—that it makes her cringe, and she wonders how anyone is fooled by it.)

“Geographically speaking, it is.”

 

* * *

 

“Peggy Carter,” Natasha said in her most earnest and innocent voice as she stepped into her path, “It’s an—well, it’s an honor to meet you, I hope that doesn’t sound too fangirl-ish.”

Agent Carter smiled. “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss…?”

“Rushman. Natalie Rushman.”

“Miss Rushman. Do forgive me, but I was just on my way to catch someone—though please do come find me later—”

“Oh, no, of course, I understand— Oh— _sorry_ …”

Natasha had jolted forward into Agent Carter as a man passed behind her. In truth he’d barely brushed against her, but even he believed in her ruse. The man apologized profusely for not watching where he was going (and he was clearly tipsy, that was an unexpectedly neat addition to her cover) while Agent Carter tutted and brushed the spill of Natasha’s drink off her dress.

“Terribly sorry,” the man slurred again, now actively leering, and Natasha didn’t even have to pretend to brush him off in annoyance.

“The double-edge sword of charity benefits,” Agent Carter said ruefully. “Open bars free people’s pocketbooks, but also their inhibitions.”

She winced a little and held a hand to her back as she stooped to retrieve her fallen purse.

“Please,” said Natasha. “Allow me.”

“That’s very kind. You’re a dancer, I take it?”

Natasha looked up a little too quickly.

“Sorry?”

Agent Carter had caught her off guard. Youth and Age constantly underestimate the other, but Natasha was supposed to be better than that. She knew as well as anyone how much a tiny detail could compromise a mission.

She willed herself not to look over to the east windows.

“Just…” Agent Carter motioned down.

They both looked at Natasha’s feet. She’d unconsciously stretched her toes off the floor and into a pointe while the other foot supported her weight.

“Old habits die hard,” Natasha said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m afraid I wasn’t cut out for a career, though. It’s small-time modeling these days.”

Agent Carter smiled understandingly, but Natasha could see the cautious alert in her eyes. Agent Carter took back her purse with a polite nod and then excused herself, walking through the crowd.

 

* * *

 

 

Peggy was thinking of ballerinas and of chefs.

She wasn’t sure why. She was walking towards Senator Wilkins, whom she wanted to speak with about his recent fit of conservatism, but her mind was filled with the ballet and kitchens, dancers with sharp leg extensions and white-coated cooks with chopping knives—

The penny dropped. She moved faster towards the familiar broad shoulders in suspenders. He turned and caught her eye. His face was set and pale.

Jack slid a hand to rest in the small of her back as she came next to him.

“Peggy,” he said grimly, “we’ve got a ghost…”

The rest of his sentence was lost in an explosion and screams.


	3. interlude

**1961**

Once upon a time, Jack, too, had dreamed about the moment he would find his damsel in distress. Especially during the war years, while curling up in a cold dank trench surrounded by other smelly, miserable, homesick men. She would be impressed by his military valor, he’d imagined, and he would in return gallantly take care of and protect her during their long, peaceful years of marriage.

Then he’d met Peggy and it was exactly like the _glass shattering overhead_ or _hit over the head by a blunt object_ metaphors described.

She didn’t need him. She never had and never would. She was capable of everything and more. The only reason she married him was because she _wanted_ him, not needed him. This was an important distinction to him. It was better than being needed. They both wanted to share their lives with the other, and so they did.

At first he was worried how they would interact with other people that weren’t in the SSR—especially couples. Would she be able to make friends with other housewives and mothers? What would they talk about?

Then they went to a dinner party shortly after getting married and the metaphorical glass shattered over his head again.

Peggy got along swimmingly well. With _everyone_. Perhaps the other women were a little surprised to hear she was still working—with no plans to stop—but then they accepted it and moved on. And would continue talking and laughing together like a house afire. Because women are, of course, people too.

In fact, the only time Peggy seemed to receive any disapproval or censure was from the _men_. If a man were talking to her and Jack and moved away from pleasantries and into meatier topics, he would automatically turn and address Jack, subconsciously shutting Peggy out of the conversation.

In these moments, Jack liked to sit back and enjoy his drink.

“I swear to you, the bastard was aiming straight for my head, but he was such a terrible shot that I was more worried he’d get me in the balls,” their neighbor laughed, settling further into his armchair. “Sorry, Mrs. Thompson—I think Marlene is over there, talking with Mrs. Walters.” He nodded over to the other end of the sitting room.

“I once was aiming for an SS Kommandant’s balls,” Peggy said cheerfully to their neighbor, not moving from her seat. “But then I slipped on a patch of black ice and got him through the heart instead.”

“Messed up her record,” Jack chimed in. “All her heart shots but that one were perfect hits. Embarrassing, really,” he added in a faux whisper.

“At least,” she said, turning to him, “I didn’t almost accidentally shoot one of my own men.”

“Why was Gomez in an old—uh—enemy uniform anyway?”

“He was sneaking out of the— place!”

“If he’d followed protocol, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Which makes the friendly fire absolutely acceptable,” she said, rolling at eyes at their neighbor, whose drink had frozen halfway up to his mouth.

“You want to talk friendly fire,” said Jack, with a cocky grin, “she knocked me out the other night when I came into the bedroom.”

“You were sneaking through the window in the dead of night,” said Peggy.

“Someone had been tailing me home!”

“How was I supposed to know this?”

Their neighbor laughed along gamely and then the conversation drifted into further reminiscing and then, to no one’s surprise, her neighbor brought up Captain America.

This was her cross to bear. Everyone knew their history—whether or not they knew all the details was another story, but it seemed to be common knowledge that Peggy had at least _known_ Captain America in the war.

She would have thought she’d be accustomed to it by now—the familiar ache when she heard his name—but she shouldn’t have been surprised, really, for names have power.

Jack was good about it. He would always rest his hand near her leg, an option of support, so that she could hold it if she wanted. Or squeeze it tight in lieu of punching in someone else’s face.

But other times he would just get up and walk away. Peggy didn’t blame him at all; sometimes she wished she could just get up and walk away. But there is a thing called _saving face_ —and walking away while ignoring a question reeks of guilt and lies.

So she soldiers forward and waits for the one question she hates the most.

Peggy loved Jack. She wanted no illusions about it otherwise. Not even in just the purely romantic sense, but in a _complementary_ way: they might bring out the worst in each other, but they also bring out the best. And if that wasn’t full-circle, then she didn’t know what was.

There was always that one person, though—every party, every gathering—who would whisper to her, if Jack wasn’t standing there, _Would you have married him?_

Peggy never answered this question. What was the point? It was one of those meaningless, brutal hypotheticals.

Would she have married him? ( _Of course I would have, you numskull_ , she never said _._ ) But she couldn’t. He was dead. She was alive. Time is out of joint. In another timeline, another lifetime—

But this was her timeline here. It was a good one.

 

**1943**

“You told me I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?”

“Every word,” said Peggy, and Steve felt a profound sense of relief and then a flood of heat. If it weren’t for the godawful knot of lead in his stomach, he would have kissed her right then and there.

He wasn’t ignorant. He’d never had a particularly successful time with girls, but then again he’d never felt anything more than a fleeting appreciation for their beauty or their brains. He’d never loved anyone except Bucky Barnes, for as long as he could remember, and he thought it was because he was some kind of deviant, so he’d swallowed everything back and did his best to make an effort on all those disastrous double dates—

But now—

What he was feeling for Peggy was the same type of emotion he felt for Bucky. On the same scale at least, if not the same depth. So he _wasn’t_ a deviant (or maybe only half deviant—but from the little of war he’d seen already, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing to have more love, any kind of love), he was just… very discerning about the _type_ of person he fell for, apparently.

When he returned—if he returned—if he could reach Bucky in time, if he wasn’t out of time, _time is out of joint_ —

He couldn’t marry Bucky. (He wasn’t allowed to marry Bucky.) He could marry Peggy. (He’d like being married to Peggy.) He could save Bucky, he _would_ save Bucky, _ohgodpleaselethimbealive_ , if this new stupid incredible miracle body could do anything for him, let it be to save Bucky—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come and say hi on tumblr 


	4. presto

**1999**

Peggy and Jack both dropped to the ground, but it became clear that the explosion had been small, a one-off, and contained in the far end of the room.

“A diversion,” she said crisply, already fumbling for the gun in her purse. Jack winced as he reached for his holster beneath his suit jacket—his old shoulder injury acting up again—so Peggy retrieved it for him.

“You take point?” he said.

She barely had to nod. It hadn’t been a question so much as a confirmation of their standard protocol. They’d worked together for so long they didn’t have to communicate so much by words anymore.

Because this was a high-profile function there was security present, but they were for the moment focused on evacuating the room. Peggy checked to make sure there weren’t any serious injuries that needed taking care of (there were casualties, but those didn’t need immediate attention, did they?) and then stilled, letting her eyes sweep across the room without hurry.

The man with dark hair and an exaggerated gait. He was the only one walking with purpose, sliding through the streaming crowds of frantic people. You can’t hide that kind of calm.

But Peggy wasn’t interested in the assassin—yet. She was concerned about his intended target.

She had a few precious moments. The kind of assassin to set off a bomb as a diversion wouldn’t be a stealthy, close-range worker. He would wait for a clean path to the target, and then shoot. Peggy had a solid window before he reached his target. She couldn’t see his face, but she would be able to tell by his body language.

There wasn’t anyone in his immediate path worth assassinating. But a few steps in the distance was a high-ranking official in the government. Peggy quickened her step, gaining on him—

And then the man was sliding an arm round a portly young gentleman near him, chummily, as if sharing a joke. He was laughing, and the portly young man was laughing, and then the portly young man was sliding to the floor, his throat cut. Peggy hadn’t even seen the flash of the knife.

She raised her gun, unnoticed in the hurried crowds of people still panicked from the explosion.

Then she heard the click of another gun, prepped to fire. Peggy turned and saw the redheaded ballerina from earlier. A young thing, still a child—but the innocent, starstruck mask had been replaced with a worldly resign. Her gaze was leveled on Peggy’s.

The assassin’s back stiffened, but he didn’t turn. He knew the girl was covering him. He moved toward the exit, though his head kept turning to his left. He’d apparently spotted Jack, but didn’t determine him to be a threat.

Peggy saw the geometry between the four of them:

a diagonal between her and the assassin; another diagonal between the redheaded girl and Jack, watching their respective sixes’.

A standoff, and the target was dead.

 

* * *

 

Peggy charged.

He fled.

 

* * *

 

He was superhuman fast and she was old, but she was _Peggy Carter_.

She stopped following him and took a shortcut. She was waiting for him at the top of the grand staircase at the main entrance, hiding behind a pillar on the balcony. He would have memorized the building plans beforehand: the back entrance was the quickest exit, deserted, and would dump out in the side alley. But the main entrance was crowded with people, going up and down the stairs, full of movement. Peggy had a gut feeling this would be the exit he’d choose. He would try to blend.

She caught a flurry of movement from the corner of her eye and, reaching for her gun, she pivoted and pointed.

“Back exit’s clear,” said Jack, coming to stand behind her. He slipped his newest toy—a _cellular_ phone, big and boxy but so convenient—into his pocket and reached for his holster. “I called Fury. He’s sending backup. For what it’s worth.”

“He’ll be gone by then,” Peggy agreed, eyes sharp and watching the crowd. “There. Jack. Just came out on the landing. Is it—?”

She couldn’t see his face. She didn’t have her glasses on. She’d forgotten them at home.

Jack fished his out of his jacket pocket and peered forward, watching the man casually walk down the staircase. He sucked in a breath.

“Jack?” Peggy cocked her gun. “Well? Is it?”

“It’s _him_ ,” breathed Jack.

“It’s who?”

“The— with the metal arm— the man— do you remember that mission, in ’56 or ’57, I think—”

Peggy did remember. She also knew much more than her husband in terms of sensitive material. She knew about the legendary assassin with the metal arm, known as the Winter Solider.

She came out from behind the pillar, firing, but he had already dodged. Plaster crackled near her head as someone returned fire. She ducked back behind the pillar, crouching to the ground to find a view of the Winter Soldier’s backup.

Jack had already spotted her. She was following the man with the metal arm at a decent distance. She looked like a kid, but he remembered that boarding school in Russia.

The Winter Soldier threw a glance over his shoulder to the redheaded girl, and everything changed.

Jack recognized that look. He looked exactly the way Jack had felt when he’d first fallen in love with Peggy, though neither of them had been ready to admit it yet. It was the look of a drowning man, and she was his lifeline.

“Change tactic,” he said. “The redhead. She’s his weak link. He’s too good, you can’t get at him. But you can get _to_ him _through_ her. Draw him in.”

When Peggy didn’t move, he looked down at her. Her face was frozen in a mask of combined horror and hope.

“It can’t be,” she breathed.

“It is. Incredible as it seems,” said Jack. “I wouldn’t forget his face.”

“Nor I,” she said. “But it’s not possible.”

 

* * *

 

**1943**

“Cap?” Dugan stuck his head inside the abandoned farmhouse. “Need you outside.”

“What’s up, Dum Dum?”

“Sarge is… havin’ some kinda fit, I don’t know—”

Steve was on his feet in an instant. They were deep in a forest of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia, having just destroyed another Hydra outpost. It was their fifth successful mission to date and they were just starting to feel cocky. Steve especially so: with each new Hydra base they destroyed, he felt as if he were chipping away some of the pain they’d inflicted upon Bucky.

This was delusional, rose-colored thinking, of course, _Steve you goddamned insensitive moron_ , nothing could erase what Bucky had gone through. It had barely been a month since Steve had broken the 107th out of that base in Italy. Steve had been playing out a _move-past-it_ approach, as Bucky appeared staunchly opposed to talking about anything. This was the easiest tactic but not the one Bucky needed.

Steve burst out of farmhouse. He waved Dugan inside to catch some sleep with the other commandos—“I’ll take watch,” he said firmly, and Dugan didn’t protest—and hurried over to Bucky’s side.

Bucky was lying on his side on the ground, shaking, his eyes unfocused. Steve hunched down beside him, unsure what to do. He called Bucky’s name, softly, but received no response.

Steve cupped a hand round Bucky’s neck, with a nervous glance back toward the farmhouse, and slowly and soothingly rubbed his thumb across Bucky’s skin. He kept up the ministrations, murmuring, _Bucky? Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve. You’re okay. You’re fine. I’m here, I’ve got you, Bucky, I’m here, it’s Steve_ until Bucky blinked and his eyes refocused. He tilted his head up.

“Steve?” he said, voice gravelly.

“Yeah,” said Steve. He ran his fingers up into Bucky’s hair. “You with me?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice cracked. Then he seemed to wake up more and struggled into a sitting position. “ _Jesus_ , Steve, what happened?”

“You—”

“Shit, I was on _watch_.” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ. I’m sorry. I—”

“Don’t,” said Steve.

“ _You_ don’t! You’re the Cap, you’re supposed to chew out your sarge when he falls asleep on fucking watch—”

“You weren’t asleep.”

“I wasn’t fucking conscious though, was I?”

“You were fucking _dealing_ with stuff. Which is okay, by the way.”

“Jesus,” Bucky said again. He got to his feet and paced around the perimeter of the farmhouse. Steve let him. It took three restless circles until Bucky sat back down next to him on the ground, leaning up against a tree trunk. He was still shaky.

“Go back inside, get some sleep,” said Bucky. “I’ve got watch.”

“Nah, I’ll stay here with you.”

“It’s _fine_ , Steve,” he snarled.

“It’s _not_ fine, jackass.”

Steve hoisted Bucky into his lap without further ado. He knew Bucky hated above all else to appear weak, so it was a testament to his bone-deep fatigue that Bucky slumped against him.

“You can’t, you know,” Bucky muttered.

“Can’t what?” Steve rubbed soothing circles on Bucky’s back and Bucky made a noise of content.

“Fix everything.”

“ _You_ could,” said Steve, and Bucky cracked a reluctant grin.

“Yeah, well.” He sounded exhausted. “Not even super-soldier serum can give you innate charm.”

Steve pulled Bucky’s head down onto his shoulder. “Sleep.”

“Rendezvous’s in an hour,” Bucky slurred, already halfway gone.

“I’ll wake you.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. You got the sharpest elbows in America, maybe the third-sharpest in Europe, I’m optimistic—”

“Asshole.”

“Gotta look out for my vital organs,” and then Bucky’s breath steadied as he went boneless against Steve. His hand was clutched onto Steve’s shirt and something inside Steve warmed and twisted and he wanted to tear apart all of Hydra with his _hands_ , a shield death would be too good for them—

 

* * *

 

They arrived at the rendezvous point late. Colonel Phillips didn’t remark on this, just raised an eyebrow. It was a look that said more than any words could, but Steve appeared to not even notice. Peggy bit back a smile as Colonel Phillips, testily, told them the details of their new mission and gestured to the plane.

“You leave now,” he said, in dismissal.

“No, sir,” said Steve.

There was a ripple of tension through the commandos. Colonel Phillips slowly turned.

“Excuse me?”

It wasn’t a question.

“We leave tomorrow morning,” Steve said calmly. “We’ve been doing back-to-back missions for weeks now and my men—” his eyes flicked, involuntarily, towards Sergeant Barnes—“need a rest. It’s only one night I’m requesting, sir.”

Colonel Phillips looked more incredulous by the second.

“Son,” he said, “there is a _war_ —”

“It’s a stealth attack that we’re doing next, sir. They are completely unsuspecting. A six-hour delay won’t compromise the mission.”

“Captain Rogers. You do realize that your rank is honorary, right? Did it occur to you that I have tactical knowledge that I might choose not to share with you?”

Steve shrugged.

“I _did_ occur to me that you want us to complete successful missions. This is more likely to happen when we are physically and emotionally stable.”

He looked back at the commandos, who were now all grinning—in rather hysterical fatigue, it seemed—and then over at Barnes.

Barnes gave him a small smile and crossed his arms. Steve mimicked him and turned back to Colonel Phillips, staring him down.

Peggy bit back a laugh as Colonel Phillips seethed in outraged silence.

 

* * *

 

This is how Peggy always remembered them. Steve, standing straight and tall and for all appearances _looking_ like the straight-shooter, but running his mouth with an incessant stream of sass and self-righteous fury.

And then there was Barnes, by his side as always, who toward everyone else was a charming blaze of glory, but next to Steve could settle into a deeper calm and quiet. They were Apollo and Artemis and at the same time Ares and Aphrodite, she thought later that night when drifting off to sleep, not only family and not only lovers, but one in the same (which she didn’t realize she’d known until just then), and then she huffed a laugh at herself—this was the kind of schmaltzy sentimental rubbish her brain apparently concocted in the haze between sleep and waking ( _but it’s not entirely untrue, is it?_ ) –

And then she wondered where she fit into the equation. Steve clearly liked her, despite his all-too-evident, all-encompassing love for Bucky, and _she_ obviously liked Steve, which somehow was transferring feelings of tenderness and protection toward Barnes. It was as if Steve’s concern for Bucky was in part manifesting in her by association. Which begged the question, she thought, just before falling properly asleep, _was it happening to Barnes as well?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

**1999**

“Peggy, _no_ ,” said Jack, but she was already halfway to the staircase.

“It’s _Barnes_ ,” she said, and Jack hadn’t been married to her for over forty years for nothing—he could take a hit of new, sensitive information and react in less time that it would take most people to process it.

“What? But—shit— _Barnes_ —” He rounded the staircase after her, following as she took the steps two at a time, as the assassin and his redhead backup reached the ground floor—“Peggy, stop, even if it is, he’s still—he won’t make an exception for you—”

Her face, damn her, was already set and determined. Her gun was still drawn but she’d put the _safety_ back on. Jack clutched at a stitch in his side.

“It’s what Steve would have done,” she called back, reaching the ground floor as well. She ran after them, towards the deserted entryway, cleared by the recent bout of gunfire.

“ _Steve_ ,” Jack choked out, and it was more of a curse than a name.

 

* * *

 

“Barnes,” she said, loud and clearly, holding up her hands and her gun in the universal gesture of _peace_. “Bucky.”

The Winter Soldier— (and it _was_ the Winter Soldier, not Bucky Barnes. Peggy remembered how Barnes moved, and it had always been a cocky swagger, or a restless pacing, or even a stiff vulnerability hidden beneath a good show of bravado. This man moved with deadly purpose, with— and she recalled Jack’s description from so long ago— with _single-minded focus_ that wasn’t quite human. People were constantly distracted by emotions, by reactions to external factors, by an inner monologue unrelated to the current situation. The Winter Soldier was part of the uncanny valley.)

He turned his head at the sound of her voice, not out of recognition it seemed, but out of curiosity.

Peggy didn’t reckon the Winter Soldier had many people deliberately running after him, hands in the air, calling him strange names. His face was blank as he assessed her, and then turned his attention back to finding the exit. The redheaded girl was a step ahead of him, though clearly following his lead. Sirens could be heard in the distance.

“Barnes,” she repeated, this time raising her gun. Whatever else he might have been, once, he had just murdered on assignment, and she worked for national security. She couldn’t just let him walk out.

The Winter Soldier turned again, quickly this time, with his gun raised. She started to say, “I can—” but they were both distracted by Jack lumbering down the stairs. His breaths were short and unsteady these days: the revenge of wartime cigarettes and Cold War contraband cigars.

Peggy thought she saw something flicker on Barnes’ face as he heard Jack’s wheezing, but it was gone the moment Jack fired off a shot toward the redheaded ballerina operative.

The girl ducked out of the way, but the bullet grazed her shoulder. She looked down and shrugged, almost casually, but Peggy saw the twinge on the Winter Soldier’s face. She tackled Jack to the floor as a furious spray of bullets pelted against the wall, in the place he had just been standing.

Peggy rolled them across the floor and behind a freestanding bar. She rose to her feet, already firing.

The Winter Soldier and the redheaded operative were gone.

Peggy ran outside into the crowds of people, only halfheartedly searching. They would have already gone deep to underground, and much as she was loath to admit it, she couldn’t pound the pavement like she used to.

She tucked her gun into the waistband of her pants and went back inside to where Jack was lying on the floor, struggling to breathe. She retrieved his glasses from where they’d fallen a few feet away—cracked, this was the third pair in a month—and then she lay down next to him and pulled him close.

“You moron,” she said.

He chuckled, winced, and then looked up at her with the same blue eyes as ever.

“Someone’s—gotta be the bait—if you insist on being—reckless.”

Peggy rested her head on top of his, ignoring the aches and pains in her joints. They lay cuddled together as Jack worked on catching his breath, waiting for the approaching sirens to reach the building.

 

* * *

 

 

**2017**

Natasha knocked. It felt like ages before she heard a _come in_ , for she never knocked—really for anyone—except for those whom she held in high esteem: of which there were three. Peggy Carter was number two.

She sat down in the chair next to the bed without hesitation. Lately the proportion of good days to bad days was increasingly tipped toward the negative, but Natasha found that confidence seemed to soothe Agent Carter. Perhaps it intimated familiarity.

Today was evidently a bad day. Peggy smiled inquisitively at Natasha, who leaned back in the chair and propped her feet up on the bedrail.

“The traffic was awful getting here,” Natasha said. “I was railroaded by at least three groups of middle school tour groups. It’s what I imagine purgatory would be like.”

This elicited a small chuckle from Peggy, so Natasha forged on.

“Clint has been on this kick lately where he wants to take me to the _ballet_. He keeps saying it’s because he knows I miss it, but it’s not. He overheard some of the guys calling him ‘inconsiderate’ and now he’s trying to force consideration onto everyone. It’s a nightmare. Do you like the ballet?” she asked.

“I like it well enough,” said Peggy. The corner of her mouth turned up. “Though I prefer Broadway.”

“Mm. Well, I hate it. Just—hate it. It’s not relaxing for me. It’s not even boring, which I would take in a heartbeat. It’s _stressful_ , it’s just so stressful. I know exactly what specific pain everyone is in, and I can see every single tiny mistake… It’s probably the same kind of anxiety a chef gets when eating in someone else’s restaurant.”

Natasha stayed for another half hour until Peggy started to tire. She kept her tone light and steady, even for unpleasant anecdotes or news. She would never cut out half the world’s truth. But she will concede to modulate her voice to some kind of comfort.

It wasn’t atonement, really. It might not have even been altruistic.

Natasha rose, popping out the creaks in her back, and stooped to kiss Peggy’s cheek.

“Gotta go,” she said. “The boys are having a Fourth of July party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr, I flail a lot about bucky, steve and bucky, natasha, marvel, and peggy carter


	5. andante

**2015**

Steve’s hand froze an inch from the doorknob. He’d seen someone else through the hospital room window, sitting in the chair next to Peggy’s bed. The man’s chin was resting in one hand; the other was hidden in the pocket of his jacket. He was listening intently. Peggy seemed to be doing all the talking, though every so often he would nod.

Steve backed up against the wall, out of view. He felt like he’d just punctured a lung. He couldn’t go in there. Not yet. Not—what would he say? What if his appearance triggered some kind of violent, subconscious reaction—?

But then the door was opening. He was coming out of the room.

“It was lovely to meet you, Sergeant,” Peggy called.

He raised a hand in response. Then the door shut behind him and he noticed Steve.

He stopped, stock still.

Steve didn’t move a muscle. He wasn’t armed, nor did he have his shield, but he was tensed to strike if Bucky moved to attack him.

But Bucky’s eyes were trained upon his face. He was breathing heavily, as if winded.

“Steve?” he whispered, and Steve’s heart shattered.

Steve reached out, at this point not caring if he was about to take a knife to the gut, to pull Bucky into an embrace.

Bucky flinched away and Steve remembered, _yes, time, it takes time, it’s only been a year_ , but he’d hoped and wished every day of that year—

 

* * *

 

He had journeyed, for months, searching every known Hydra base or cache. Every place across the globe that had been in the file Natasha had given him. Sometimes Sam accompanied him. More often, Steve traveled alone. He went back to Brooklyn even, looking in all their old haunts.

Sometimes when he arrived the Hydra base looked like it had been ravaged a while ago. Sometimes, he could tell, that Bucky had just been there. Steve had just missed him.

No. Bucky had _left_ before Steve arrived.

He didn’t want to be found.

This had been the hardest truth to swallow.

 

* * *

 

Steve stepped back, crossing his arms tightly across his chest to keep, just to have somewhere to put them.

“What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been—eating?” he asked, lamely, for Bucky looked thin, all hollowed cheeks and sallow skin.

Bucky shrugged.

“How long are— Have you been living here? In D.C.?”

Steve wasn’t sure how to proceed with this conversation. He didn’t know how much Bucky remembered—if anything at all—though he apparently recognized Steve. He didn’t want to frighten him away, but at the same time couldn’t hold back from trying to ascertain as much as possible.

Bucky nodded.

He wasn’t just making a motion. Steve could tell. He was just grasping onto the most honest answer, the one nearest to the truth. Living, staying—existing in D.C., at least.

“You know who I am,” said Steve, hearing the plea in his own voice.

“You’re Steve Rogers.”

He wasn’t sure if Bucky was stating a fact, like _George Washington was the first president_ or if he was telling from personal knowledge.

“And… do you know— I mean. You are—?”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said automatically. “Though apparently people called me Bucky.” He hesitated. “Including you.”

“Yeah—yeah, that’s— right.”

A smile broke out across Steve’s face that he couldn’t control.

“Let me look at you,” said Steve, blinking past the large amounts of water that seemed to be blocking his vision.

He reached out—Bucky tensed but wasn’t flinching away this time—and ran a hand through Bucky’s long hair.

He looked like a mix between the old Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier. The long hair and hollow face and muscle mass there still, but the rocky edge gone from his eyes.

Bucky shied away.

 “Not… here—” Bucky muttered, with a glance around, though his eyes kept sliding back to Steve’s face, then away again, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him for too long. What era did it feel like for him? The Forties still? The Fifties? Did he remember the brief moments of time he’d been awake and out in the world?

It was so strange to see him in this modern clothing—the hooded jacket and t-shirt, the jeans and athletic shoes that everyone seemed to wear. Though Steve supposed that he must look strange as well.

“Okay,” Steve said calmly. “Not here. Let’s go have a cup of… something. My apartment’s not far.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“Let me just—” Steve cleared his throat. “Let me just say hello to Peggy first. It’s Thursday. I visit every Thursday.”

He was babbling. Had he forgotten how to speak?

“She told me,” said Bucky, so quietly that at first Steve thought he’d imagined it. He tried not to let it show on his face, the churn of emotions, and he had to grip onto the doorknob for support. He felt it crushing beneath his hand.

“Wait here. Please?”

Bucky nodded, ever so slightly and leaned against the wall.

“She didn’t know me,” he said.

“Sometimes she doesn’t know me either. Some days are better than others.”

Steve reached out again, hesitantly, and pushed Bucky’s hair away from his eyes. Bucky let him, his gaze still trained on the floor. But Steve could see his throat working.

“I’ll be right back out,” Steve said softly.

 

* * *

 

“You’re looking chipper today,” Peggy said to him, smiling. Steve smiled back, unable to contain himself, until she continued, “Jack.”

Steve couldn’t pretend this wasn’t a blow. He was—not used to, but at least prepared—for her not to recognize him, but she’d never called him by her late husband’s name before. In the face of just getting Bucky back, this felt like the rug being yanked out from under him.

Then he remembered that he didn’t really have Bucky “back.” Not yet. Nor would he ever. But he was here at least. He was here.

Steve stayed to chat for a while longer. Peggy didn’t call him _Jack_ again, but she was stuck in the past and reminisced with him about eras long since over that Steve hadn’t experienced and couldn’t remember. She was in good spirits, though she seemed tired, and Steve suddenly felt the full weight of these visits.

Peggy was old. She had already lived her life—she’d told him that, hadn’t she? Peggy always knew. She’d known that Steve was stuck. He’d been living in between a time that no longer existed and a time that he did not truly belong in. Well. Not that he’d been trying very hard. Befriending Sam had been the first real attempt to integrate himself into society. And he had the Avengers—other outcasts, good people—that were slowly becoming his—colleagues? Friends? Could he use the word _friends_? What did he know about them, really, aside from their strengths and weaknesses in combat and vague personal details?

_“Get out of your head,”_ Bucky had told him one afternoon, a few years ago—nearly a century ago—in Brooklyn. Steve had been brooding, staring out the window, his 4F rejection letter discarded by his feet. _“This is your life right now, okay? Your head can’t be in two places at once.”_

Steve kissed Peggy goodbye and left the room.

 

* * *

 

Steve had trouble remembering the journey back to his apartment, after. During, it felt mostly surreal—like those lucid dreams where you _realize_ that you are dreaming and know that your body is waking up, but you desperately try and hold onto the dream before it slips away.

Then they were off the bus and walking onto his street and into his building and up his staircase and into his apartment. It wasn’t until he locked the door and set the security code that Steve realized he’d been holding his breath.

It hit him that this was real. Bucky was really standing in front of him.

Steve was lost for a moment—it _was_ Bucky standing there but then again it wasn’t, not in the same iteration he’d known.

But it didn’t matter, really—there was too much history between them, too much water under the bridge. Even if he _were_ an entirely different person (but he couldn’t be, could he, for a soul was always the same) by a different name, it wouldn’t matter.

He wondered if Bucky was going through a similar turmoil, because he looked drained and weary just to be standing there just meters inside Steve’s apartment.

“There’s no spare bedroom,” said Steve. “So you take my room. I’ll sleep on the couch—”

Bucky shook his head.

“Buck. I’m serious, this couch is like a goddamn dream. It’s practically a bed, like the kind swells had, back we when we were growing up.”

Bucky sat down on the couch, emphatically. He didn’t lean back. He didn’t look at Steve.

 

* * *

 

It took Bucky a full two weeks to look Steve in the eye. Any familiarity Steve imagined he’d seen at Peggy’s residence had seemingly evaporated. Bucky disappeared every night, and Steve had just about accepted the fact that he was going to be perpetually sleep-deprived for the rest of his life, because his stomach dropped with a gnawing ache each time he heard the front door creak open and shut again.

 

* * *

 

Steve started sleeping with his door open, as a quiet encouragement for Bucky to come and talk to him if he needed. Then Steve thought that perhaps subtly wasn’t the best option at this point, and came out of his room next time he heard Bucky move for the door.

Bucky froze in the middle of the living room.

“You’re always welcome to sleep with me,” Steve said, brain dulled by fatigue. “I mean.” He could feel a blush spreading up his neck. “To sleep in my room. Next to me. Like we did…” _During the war_ , he didn’t finish.

“Okay,” Bucky said, and then carried on leaving.

But two nights later as Steve was restlessly turning (he knew Bucky would be leaving soon—where did he go every night? But _he came back, he always came back_ , although Steve was beyond terrified that one night he just _wouldn’t_ ), Bucky came and hovered in the doorway.

Steve immediately pulled the covers aside.

 

* * *

 

It was easier for Bucky to talk at night, in the dark, when he couldn’t see Steve’s face. Steve gleaned, from halting explanations, that Bucky was nearly tormented sick by the memory of almost killing Steve; that he was wracked with guilt for staying with him; and that as much as he wanted to stay, to be with Steve again, it took everything in him to return again each night.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Steve felt the cumulative effects of minimal sleep and tension over the past weeks. He dragged himself out of bed well past nine a.m.—which, next to his ingrained army schedule of rising with the sun, felt like midday—and sluggishly went into the kitchen to make coffee.

Bucky slept through the rest of the day, making up for years—decades—of sleep deprivation.

Steve was sitting at the table, staring at the ring stains on the wood from too many cups set down without coasters—purposefully, to make a pattern ( _“For godssakes, Steve,” Bucky would groan, back in Brooklyn, “turn your brain back to reality”_ ), when Bucky finally strode into the kitchen. His shoulders were set back in determination and he wasn’t looking Steve in the eye. Steve knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“I have to leave,” Bucky said.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Steve at the same time.

Steve rose and dumped his sixth cup of coffee into the sink. He pulled out various pots and pans and went about setting them up on the stove.

“You’re staying here. Hand me that pasta, will you?” he added, like this was just another normal dinnertime routine for them.

“No,” said Bucky.

“Why? You think it’s too dangerous? It isn’t.”

“Steve.”

Bucky was quieter now. He wasn’t the mouthy silver-tongued charmer he used to be, instead conserving his words and emotional expression to the ultimate minimum.

Steve didn’t mind. He usually knew what Bucky was thinking anyway.

“It’ll always be too dangerous,” said Steve.

“ _Steve_.”

Steve slammed the ladle down onto the counter. Sauce splattered everywhere. “Bucky. I watched you fall off that train. You watched me nearly get—”

He cut off short.

“Beaten to death,” Bucky said dully. “By me.”

“By Hydra,” Steve corrected.

Bucky just looked at him.

“Neither of us can go through that again,” Steve said. “This is our second chance, okay? We’re both here and we’re both alive. And yeah, we might both be screwed up—”

“Speak for yourself, pal,” said Bucky, and then in the grand tradition of old friendships, they both snorted, and their angry, serious conversation dissolved into helpless laughter.

 

* * *

 

Bucky mostly slept on Steve’s couch (or sometimes curled up in Steve’s closet or Steve’s bathtub—Sam said it was something to do with small spaces and safety, but Steve suspected it was also recalling back to a time where they lived in tenements whose rooms were not much bigger than closets), but some nights he would come into Steve’s room in the middle of the night and curl up next to him in bed.

“This one time in 1968,” Bucky would whisper, hand warm against Steve’s waist and his breath tickling Steve’s neck, “when I was awake—you were still sleeping—”

Bucky liked to know where things were. Steve wasn’t slovenly, but his possessions were always moving around the apartment. Bucky hated this. He didn’t care if things weren’t lined up neatly on shelves, but if he’d last seen a book shoved underneath the couch, he damn well expected it to be in the exact same place the next time he wanted it. It drove him crazy when Steve tried to tidy up. _Where’s the shirt that was sitting on the back of the chair yesterday?_ Bucky would ask and Steve would say, _In the closet_ , and Bucky would repeat, _The CLOSET?_ like he’d never heard of such a ridiculous place to put a shirt.

In his mind, too, he liked to situate where he and Steve were. It helped him to have a concrete timeline, Steve supposed. When Bucky remembered, late at night, his sentences would always start with a preface.

“During a mission I had in 1987—you were still sleeping—the USSR was still intact—Reagan was president of the States—”

or

“That time we went to Queens to return that fool dog to its fool owner—in 1939—we were both awake—Hitler had just invaded Poland—”

and Steve would hum sleepily, in agreement, until Bucky finished this story. Sometimes Steve would tell Bucky stories, and Bucky would add in the placement anyway.

“Natasha recommended it,” Steve said, flopping on the couch next to Bucky and tossing over the DVD case. “She said we’d probably think it’s cheesy, but said it would remind us of the Howling Commandos.”

“Okay,” said Bucky. “1985,” he murmured, running his fingers over _The Goonies_. “We were both asleep. Got any popcorn?”

 

* * *

 

They were listening to a big band radio station and the announcer on a crackly old recording introduced the next chart as _Glenn Miller Orchestra’s hot new hit of 1941_ —“We were both awake,” Bucky murmured from his chair in the living room, restlessly jiggling his knee as Steve was shaving in the bathroom. “Both pre-serum.”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Steve was the one who folded in upon himself. It was often something small or stupid that would set him off—a strange bit of slang on the radio, or a baffling moment at the bank, or the buzz of fluorescent lighting.

Sometimes he could fend off the panic attack by standing still and practicing controlled breathing, but other times he would return home and putter around uselessly. Or go for a run, where the sound of the wind whistling past his ears would drown out the noise in his head.

One Tuesday, after coming back from his third run of the day, he found Bucky glaring at him from the kitchen over a pot of soup.

“What’s wrong?” Steve said immediately, easing into the kitchen with his hands up.

“That was your third run,” said Bucky.

“Sorry,” said Steve. “I didn’t mean—I don’t want you to feel like I’m… abandoning you—”

“No,” said Bucky, frustrated. “I’m not. This isn’t about me. It’s not always about me, Steve.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“I know you worry about me and—I’m trying.” He took a breath. “But I worry about you too, you mook.”

He _was_ trying. He was trying so hard.

Steve reached out for Bucky’s metal arm, and pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand. A shudder rippled up Bucky’s spine. He slid his flesh arm around Steve, clutching the back of Steve’s shirt like he was drowning and Steve was a life preserver, although Steve felt like _he_ was the one being saved.

 

* * *

 

They were in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, arguing next to the display of oatmeal.

“I’m telling you that I have _no memory of this_ ,” said Steve.

“That’s because you have a _selective_ memory, Steven,” Bucky said, dropping the canister of oatmeal into the cart. “You were fourteen and all riled up. You _refused_ to eat that damn bowl of oatmeal on _principle_.”

“In New York after the Chitauri attack—”

“2012,” said Bucky automatically. “You were awake, I was asleep.”

“—Tony tried to clear away rubble with his suit, because civilian clean up efforts were ‘taking too long.’ He cleared away half a city block before he realized his suit was overheating with exertion—he hadn’t debugged it yet from its beta version—and the… exhaust, I guess you can call it, was mostly carbon monoxide and was making everyone around him faint.” Steve snickered at the memory. “Tony threw a fit and paid the entire block’s medical bills on principle. Even for preexisting conditions that the suit had had no effect on.”

“Rogers,” said Bucky, “I hope you aren’t comparing a billionaire’s generosity to your stubborn ass’s inability to keep yourself alive. Out of some kind of hero complex.”

“Yeah?” Steve challenged lightly. “What’re you gonna do about it if I were?”

Bucky bit his lip and shifted uncomfortably. Then he disappeared into the bread aisle.

Steve shrugged and went to look for jam. So many types and flavors, all lined up on a long stretch of shelving. Just there for the taking. It was still sometimes staggering.

Bucky suddenly reappeared next to him. With his metal hand, he yanked Steve forward by his shirt and laid a hard kiss on him. It was anything but romantic (in fact, Steve’s mouth felt a little bruised) and Bucky fled immediately after. But Steve felt the electric tingle all the way down to his toes.

It was the first time they’d kissed since 1944 (both awake; and now both awake) and Steve was having trouble keeping his grip on reality.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Steve waited patiently in bed as Bucky restlessly entered and left his bedroom ten times before he was able to lie down next to Steve. His hands were still jittering as he stared at Steve, wanting but anxious, as Steve carefully, and keeping eye contact at all times, leaned over to him. Steve slid his hand up Bucky’s torso, under his t-shirt, and Bucky sighed, helpless and ragged, and Steve kissed him: carefully, tenderly. Bucky melted into him.

“I’m not—” Bucky mumbled between kisses, pulling Steve closer—“I’m not who you—”

“You _are_ ,” said Steve, curling his hand protectively around Bucky’s neck. “You _are_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be a short epilogue up soon, probably tomorrow, and then this story will be done - thank you all for reading and commenting! come find me on  tumblr 


	6. encore

**2015**

 

Steve took Bucky to visit Peggy in the morning. He couldn’t be certain, but he suspected her lucidity wavered with fatigue. He wanted to catch her at her best for their first time visiting her together. Bucky had been too cagey to visit her again on his own—it had felt too much for him, on top of everything else he was dealing with—and Peggy hadn’t recognized Steve the last couple of times he’d stopped by. Steve hoped these were isolated incidents and not a pattern, but. Well.

Bucky walked beside Steve, half a pace behind as always. Steve suspected this had more to do with his time as the Winter Soldier and his dislike of having anyone at his back, but then sometimes he would catch Bucky eyeing potential suspicious activity and then looking back to _Steve_ , and— Steve realized Bucky had been acting like Steve’s sergeant again and he’d had to take a moment to stop and catch his breath.

Like all of Bucky, Steve knew that it was impossible to identify separate pieces of James Buchanan Barnes and the Winter Soldier. They were both his history and they were irrevocably mixed. So he couldn’t say that walking half a pace behind was a sergeant thing or an assassin thing, because it was most likely both.

The first few months they had both had been trying to bring back Bucky Barnes, trying to force their old relationship back to the way things were and— of course it was a disaster.

Bucky had nearly constant breakdowns, and soon so did Steve, until, after trial and error and raw gaping pain (and a good amount of therapy, both joint and separate), they were finally learning to forge forward as their current selves. Both Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier, and Steve Rogers and Captain America.

They problem with having separate identities, Steve had said one night while cooking dinner amongst the remains of a nearly-destroyed kitchen, is that the idea assumes one person can easily slip out of one persona and into the other.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Steve was still Steve while he was Captain America—with all Steve’s beliefs and emotions and habits—and so had Bucky been while the Winter Solider had been active. In a different sense of course, Steve hastily added as he saw the familiar grip of panic gleam in Bucky’s eyes, because lord knows Bucky hadn’t had any _choice_ in the matter. But Bucky had still been present for all of those missions as the Winter Soldier.

“I’m not saying forget you were— or focus on it all the time— But. I mean. You were the Winter Soldier and you are Bucky Barnes—both—and just… I don’t know. We can accept this. That you were both. And I am both. And. I still want you around,” he blurted. “I want you here. I want us together.”

There was a moment of silence. Bucky was sitting on the floor, head resting in his hands. Steve turned back to the stove, holding back the impulse to keep talking. He listened to Bucky’s breathing. It seemed to be evening out.

“You always did use an ass-ton of words to say a lot of nothing,” Bucky said, although he sounded more nostalgic than annoyed. He pushed his hair away from his face and came to stand next to Steve at the stove—leaving some distance between them at first, and then slowly regaining comfort around Steve until they were able to stand pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. Bucky watched quietly until a colander was needed, and then he fetched it out of the cupboard (without hesitating, like he used to when he was waiting for an order) and then he and Steve were working in tandem.

Neither had acknowledged the moment with words, but something in the air had cleared that night. The next morning had been more companionable. Steve felt like they were—not starting fresh, but finally moving forward with their eyes fully open. Finding their footing.

 

* * *

 

“Hello,” Peggy said to Steve when he walked in. Her tone was courteous as always, but distant.

Steve sagged a little. He shook his head at Bucky, who was watching through the small window in the door. Bucky’s face fell. Another time.

“Hello, Peggy,” said Steve, coming to sit next to her. “How are you feeling?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she said, smiling. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I—”

Steve broke off talking when Bucky came into the room. Steve widened warning eyes at him, but Bucky looked calm. He came to stand next to Steve.

“Hi, Agent Carter,” he said.

“Hello,” Peggy replied, and, turning to Steve, “It’s very nice of you and your young man to visit me, although I would prefer to know your names if we continue our social visit.”

“Oh, he’s—”

Steve paused. He didn’t want to overload her, but she didn’t recognize them anyway, so he might as well be frank. Moving forward with both eyes open, he thought. Finding their footing.

Steve took Bucky’s hand, their fingers lacing smoothly together, like always. Only now there was no threat, no worry of making this small gesture in public. It was possible. It was permissible. It was—

Steve was suddenly choked up. Bucky sensed this and brought his other, gloved hand to rest on Steve’s shoulder. Nothing worked as well as Steve’s distress to anchor Bucky more firmly to the present.

“He’s called Bucky,” Steve finally said. “I’m Steve.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both, Steve and… Bucky. Steve and Bucky.”

Peggy sat up straighter. Her gaze had focused.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, indeed. Captain Rogers always did have a soft spot for you, Sergeant Barnes.”


End file.
